I was still a child and could not breathe when the lights were dimmed. A hotel room, indistinguishable from myriad others: two beds, a dresser, television (sans the promised HBO), vanity mirror, bathroom, an uncomfortable chair & a table. But when I was with you there was always light. Nighlights in your suitcase; you were my savior. Tomorrow there is Nevada & California--that's as far as we can go. I cried myself to sleep.

Miles before the hotel, I slept in the car, I dreamt: the waves & the light reflecting forever & pawprints on the beach & then stars everywhere. You promised me this, and you said we would chase the light, we would scare it away and then I'd know that darkness was light subdued, a luminescent kitten. But when I awoke, the sun had gone. I went as fast as I could; you can't outrun the inevitable.